


Never Kissel and Tell

by Cue_The_Facepalming



Series: F#ck Off and Kiss Me: The Surly Skaters Saga [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Ouran High School Host Club - All Media Types, Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Also Mysterious Sexy Social Media Bros, Beka and His GDAMN Musical Influences, Dancers AHOY, End Game Does Not Mean They're Celibate OK, Enter the Hockey Bros, General Trigger Warnings (to be safe), Harry Is Snarky, Harry is Hormonal, James Has Lost His Chill To Ikea Devilry, Kyoya As Reformed Creep, M/M, Mila as BAMF Ice Dancing Coach, Multiple short lived romances, The Skate Dads Have Regrets, Viktor Never Had Chill, implied sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-28 22:43:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16732038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cue_The_Facepalming/pseuds/Cue_The_Facepalming
Summary: Part 2 of the Surly Skaters' Saga. Harry hadn't known quite what to expect when he'd agreed to move to Russia.  Long hours on the ice...maybe a humiliation or two as he learned his way around his new hometown with only a bit of dodgy Russian at his disposal.  What he hadn't—couldn't have—expected was just how weird (and weirdly invested) his new rink mates would be, or what that would mean for his previously insular habits.  Basically? He was proper f*cked.





	Never Kissel and Tell

**Author's Note:**

> That's right. I'm back. ;)

Long, long before either the infamous _Sportivnyy Klub Chempionov_ , or _Ice Castle Hasetsu_ , or even _Le Palladium de Champ_ _é_ _ry_ , there was Hyde Park. Specifically, Hyde Park at Christmas.

If he closed his eyes, Harry could almost see the carousel, lit up in a flashing array of orange, yellow and red neon. Lights that glinted and gleamed as they danced across the smooth ice, or got lost in the endless, arthritic twists of the icicles that hung from every tree branch and awning. Lights that seemed to dance and bob like the faery lights from his picture books, tempting him to come closer...and closer...and closer still, to see if he could maybe capture a bit of their magic in his small, mittened hands.

He flexed his fingers slowly, his knuckles nearly aching at the phantom memory of clutching onto the reins of his golden-maned horse as the carousel made its endless loops, his eyes fixed in fearful wonder on the ice. Ice that tempted him—beckoned him, even then—to come and play.

Harry let out a shuddering breath, and...fuck, but he could almost smell it, that distinct scent that was London snowfall and heavy mulling spices, and the earthen, woolly smell of a hand-knit scarf his papa had lovingly wrapped round his neck to keep out the chill. Scents of his childhood. Scents that lingered like Dickens's Christmas Ghosts, reminding him of a time when the thought of England, of _home,_ brought only happiness instead of the bitterness of disappointment.

“ _......I'm so sorry, papa.”_

“ _Oh, Bambi. It's not your fault—and no matter what? Papa and mumma love you, magic or no magic.”_

“ _OK, papa. I love you, too.”_

And then, like the hand of god, his mumma's hand reaching down to wrap around his as she lead him onto that beautiful, sparkling ice. Not just an unexpected bit of fun, but a gift—a balm to soothe the lingering ache of disappointment. It had been like an answer to an unspoken prayer. _Love me_ (still, forever), _hold me, please don't let me fall._ And she hadn't.

Even now—more than a decade after the fucking fact—the memory was raw, visceral. Not festering, but nonetheless an open wound. His mumma, the god of his small universe and as bright and shining as a star. Him, a tiny, wobbling thing struggling under the weight of his winter kit. She had beamed at him, and he had fought the tremble in his lip, wiped the tears off his lashes, and beamed back.

...and then, there was the ice, beautiful and terrifying. His mumma's hand had never felt so big as while he was clutching to it for dear life, hoping he wasn't about to go arse over elbow as his feet slid and skittered across the rink.

Not a magical first in the literal sense, but figuratively? Most definitely. And not the last of his “icy firsts,” either.

First wobbling steps, first falls, first bloody boot blisters to rival those bought and paid for by endless hours at the barre in pointe shoes.

First lap around a rink without crashing into anything (or anyone), first simple figures, first true sense of accomplishment at a job excellently done...

...which was followed immediately by his first time tripping over _both_ toe-picks because he was being a cocky little cunt.

First spins, first jumps (both with and without the dreaded jump harness).

First realization that he could— _he_ _wanted_ _to_ —do this for-fucking- _ever_. Til the heat-death of the Universe. Or until his knees and ankles and feet were too uber-fucked to hold him up. Whichever came first.

Oh, and...slightly less important but still kind of a Big Deal™? His first crush (in general, but also on a fellow skater specifically).

...fuckin' Beka. Because of course it would be.

Beka was unassuming, unpretentious, and low-key fucking brilliant, and Harry had been weak. So. Very. Weak.

…....aaaaand he was so taking that secret to the grave. Good lord, yes. Seriously, he didn't want to even fucking imagine what would come out of either his Sensei or his little Phi _shit_ of a bestie knowing about that. It didn't bear thinking about. Nope. Not at goddamn all.

His first meeting with his crush-cum-idol had been traumatic enough without them having...that...to hold over his head. He could only imagine how much fun fucking Chulanont would have had with that fact, had he known. Christ, he'd probably bring it up just to see if he could _retroactively make said awkward first meeting even more so_.

Because he was an utter _cock_.....

…..but that wasn't the point.

The point was, to a thirteen year old Harry, Beka had seemed like a Golden God, gliding across the ice, all dark haired, and broad shouldered, and too fucking hot for his barely-a-teen aged hormones to even handle. He'd been stricken dumb by the pretty—of Beka and his skating alike—and had burst into snotty, wracking sobs half-way through the older skater's medal-winning Free Skate performance.

Of course, the mess of snotty tears running down his face and dripping down his chin like the saddest, grossest waterfall had made the fact that he was turned on as fuck that much more awkward, and horrible...and also kind of confusing.

...that said? Never let it be said that Harry was above a pitiful, teary wank, personal crisis or no.

All that to say...his love affair with the ice hadn’t been an immediate or easy thing, but like all true love, it had endured the test of time. And, more often than not, it rewarded him for his devotion. Like right now, for instance.

_Thank god for Russian hockey...aaaand, that's something I never thought I'd say with a straight face._

His eyes locked onto their target like two heat-seeking missiles, and lord was the target hot. Dangerously hot. Like, “staring into direct sunlight like an utter dumb-ass” kind of dangerously hot.

He barely even noticed his sloppy footwork as he eyed the older man—Han-Jae Kim—as he slumped back against the bleachers, absently fiddling with his phone, as if he wasn't the definition of Utterly Fuckable. It was ridiculous. Ridiculous hot fucking absentmindedly hot he was. Ridiculous how he lit up the room when he laughed, or smiled, or breathed in Harry's general direction. Ridiculous how his brain and his dick were conspiring to kill him via sheer _want_ , despite the fact that he'd only been officially single since the goddamn Gala.

It wasn't really surprising that half the rink was practically swooning over him, including some of the disaster-bros amongst the Hockey cadre. The man had half a dozen nicknames—that he knew of—amongst his gaggle of admirers.

Svetlana—one of the Ice Dancers Harry was friendly with...well, friendly-ish-ish with, anyway—had started calling him “Lapochka-ssi,” which...yeah. She wasn't lying.

Even Mila had cooed over him a bit, when she thought nobody could hear her.

The hockey players..? Eh, well. As far as Harry knew, they called him the Russian equivalent of “dude,” which...OK? He wasn't sure how that was a pet name, per se, but then again, he really had no desire to understand the mating rituals of hockey-bros.

Weird hockey mating rituals aside, Harry really couldn't judge, because he too was guilty of nicknaming the older man, although is was a bit...ah...questionable. Not because it was gross, per se, but generally? Calling a stranger “my future husband,” even in your own head, bordered on creepy.

...which was exactly why he'd admit to that little secret sometime between _absolutely_ _never_ and _only if I was for sure dying with no cure, don't fucking at me bro._

He felt his breath catch in his chest as he kinda...well...stared at #HusbandGoals frowning down at his phone, fingers flying, only really slowing down long enough to brush a stray bit of hair out of his beautiful, beautiful face. If Chris were here, he was pretty sure the man would be giving him the biggest side-eye right now...maybe even giving him shit about his impression of a swooning Victorian heroine, and he wouldn't even care. He deserved all the shit.

Harry watched, mesmerized, as the man absently tugged at a bit of hair before tucking it behind the curve of his ear; He doubted it would stay put. It had the stubborn, willful look to it that told Harry that it did what it wanted, and went fell where it wished.

...and it was unfair—un fucking fair—how sexy that was. And that wasn't just the months he'd gone without sex talking, _thanks ever so mother fucking much._

At last, He of the Unfairly Hot _Everything_ looked up, teal-blue eyes peering through a curtain of matching hair to meet Harry's gaze. And then, he smiled, as blinding as the rink lights glinting off his Coach's gaudy-as-fuck gilded skates. Harry's breath stuttered in his chest, his face going red, as he Blue Screened. Hard.

404: Brain Not Found.

Fatal Check Exception Error.

Harry.exe has stopped working.

_How......how gone am I, how goddamn weak, that I can't even judge him for dying his hair to match his eyes? Jesusfuck I'm so very very screwed, and not in the sexy way._

And then, ears still buzzing with static, brain utterly dead, he fucking tripped. Because of course he would. He was pretty sure it was his stupid-ass traitorous toe pick's fault. Or, maybe the ice wasn't quite level. Whatever it was, he fucking tripped, staggering face first into Sveltana's surly partner, Liam.

...or, Dickbag McGee, as he was known to everyone not named Svetlana.

Harry was pretty sure he would have caught his feet instead of rebounding to land on his ass, but...again. Liam, cantankerous cockbag extraordinaire. On his better days, the older boy made Plisetsky look like Prince motherfucking Charming.

“Fucking _watch it_ , will you?!”

Harry grimaced, rubbing his sore arse as he pushed himself to his feet. “Yeah, sorry about that.”

Liam huffed, tossing his—and he quoth—“glorious mane of chestnut locks,” like he was goddamn Fabio, instead of just a tool with a feathered mullet. Harry twitched, fingers itching to get hold of a pair of hair clippers and just...destroy. Because he feared that mullet. _Feared. It._ And one day, when he was least expecting it, it would sneak into his bedroom and smother him in his sleep, he just knew it.

With a huff and yet another toss of the wildebeest roosting on top of his head, King Dicktastic skated off. Harry, sliding across the ice towards the rink entrance, very deliberately did not turn to meet #BestBae's gaze. Even though he could feel his eyes like a brand on the side of his face.

He preferred to live, thanks, and didn't want to be tempted to bury himself in the middle of the rink if it turned out The Sexiest Man Alive™ was laughing at him.

Harry bit back a wince, ignoring the throbbing of his ass-bone as he leaned over the edge of the rink to wrestle with his duffle. Again, he resisted the temptation to ogle his One True Love, even though he was pretty sure that the sweat slick bangs hanging in front of his face made for a pretty good privacy screen. The mortification was too immediate, and his thirst too real, to risk looking like an ass. Well, like an ever bigger ass.

Eyes stubbornly averted, he snatched up his skate guards and mobile, letting the duffle fall to the cold cement with a flop. Harry stepped off the ice, hurriedly clipping on the hard plastic guards. Not two steps out, and his fingers were already flying as he swiped through his notifications, liking and commenting as he went.

He may or may not have also angled himself away from Mr. Pretty as he flopped down onto the bench. For reasons. Not because he was embarrassed, or anything.

...shut up.

_**seung-gillee** liked your post_

_**seung-gillee**_ _commented_ ( ⌯◞◟⌯)♡

Harry didn't even need to check the post to realize the older skater had found the pic he'd posted of himself with the newest member of the Potter family, Puppachin, his adorable little maltipoo pupper...who his Coach had named, just to be fucking clear.

Anyway.

His sweet baby was curled up on his chest, her tiny head tucked into his neck as she licked his chin. Harry, surprised, had been caught mid-laugh, his mouth curved into a smile very like his Coach's well-known, adorkable heart-shaped smile. For all that he'd grimaced about taking after his Coach, he secretly kind of adored how it turned out...which, honestly, was the reason that it was the first, and so far only, pic he'd put up of the two of them.

Avid dog lover that Seung-Gil was, Harry wasn't too surprised that the older skater had liked the pic. And, at least his reaction was 100% guaranteed to be about Puppachin, and not Harry himself; He wasn't particularly self-conscious, but he still squirmed a bit when strangers got proprietary over shit like his smile.

And for this post in particular...after the first few comments squeeing about “bby boy” and “smol skating son,” Harry had decided to avoid the comment section altogether. Well, aside from his friends' and family's comments, anyway. His fans could squee all they liked; he'd rather not know just how deep that well went.

He'd fallen down the comment-thread rabbit hole once or twice, scrolling through the feed from a few of his older pics, and—well. Never again. There were some mental images that never went away, and his fans were a surprisingly creative lot who tended towards oversharing.

...aaaand, that's all the mental energy he was putting into that train of thought, because no. Just no.

_Anyway._

Slowly swiping through the new posts, he paused, a smile tugging at his lips. Seung-Gil had posted the latest in his adorable series of dog pics...he checked the time stamp...six hours ago.

 

[image.jpg] [image.jpg] [image.jpg]

In the first image, Seung-Gil's husky was mid-roll in the grass, his sweet face pulled up into a doggy smile. Dried leaves and small twigs were tangled in his exposed belly-fur. He looked a mess, but blissfully happy.

In the second, the adorable pupper was eagerly investigating an empty flower bed, surrounded by tufts of dry grass, his gray and white muzzle streaked a rich brown from the mud.

In the last, Seung-Gil had obviously taken the pic while his furbaby was curled up at his feet, as large, watery blue doggo eyes were staring lovingly up at the camera.

**Likes 11K Comments 219**

**seung-gillee** (/ =__=)/ #doggo #doggybliss #dogperson

 

Harry's fingers flew across the keys, biting back the urge to coo at the screen.

 **hjp-skates** [screaming.gif] #amded #fluffyangel #pupperdadclub

Hands trembling from excessive squee, he quickly popped over to Seung-Gil's page, because omg, he needed all the pupper pics, and...huh.

Aside from the few he'd just seen, there wasn't anything recent for Seung-Gil. That was...odd. Well, odd for anyone familiar with his devotion to his Instagram.

He wasn't a people person—at all—or what Harry would call “a talker,” but dear god could he rival Chulanont in sheer volume and frequency of his updates. So, he'd expected _something_. A handful of snapshots—of his dog, or his rink, or breakfast, or even the new skates he'd mentioned. Hell, maybe even a few pics of him practicing for Nationals, but...it was like he'd ghosted, and had just... _failed to tell anyone_.

...it wouldn't surprise him, if he had, honestly. He hoped he hadn't, but...it would be a lie to say it was unexpected. He'd been grumbling about retirement for ages, on both social media and to the official ISU press. Though, if that were the case, it would have been nice if he'd been given a bit of heads up.

...but, then again, they probably weren't quite at the level of weird-introverted-textfriendship where Seung-Gil necessarily wanted to talk to him about his future career plans, or whatever should I/shouldn't I retirement drama he might be wrestling with.

That said? Harry couldn't quite resist the urge to pry......if you could call dropping Seung-Gil a DM with an ice skater emoji and a question mark prying. Who the fuck even knew with him.

He sighed, backtracking to scroll through the rest of his feed. The mystery of the disappearing Seung-Gil aside, Instagram was Instagram.

Beka, the cryptic shit, had uploaded a trio of closeups of his skates and the rink in Almaty, just the faintest hint of cream-colored fabric embroidered in gold thread at the very edge of the pic, where boot met leg. Harry couldn't quite tell if he was low-key bragging about next season's program, or just showing off his hot new skates. Or maybe just shitposting artistic pics for fun, as he did occasionally. It was hard to fucking tell with him, and the one fucking tag not in Kazakh was of no help whatsoever.

#YOLOonIce

 _Pfft_ , What.

What did that even _mean_?!

He snorted.

“The fuck, Beka.” He was half-tempted to FaceTime him right the fuck now, to make sure his surrogate brother hadn't been replaced by a pretentious Insta-Bro, with a profile full of ab close-ups and haughty selfies.

_Speaking of pretentious and asses...ughghghghgh._

He all but skipped down the feed, doing his best to ignore the utter travesty his Coach had uploaded of his and Yuuri-sensei's stint at a Charity Skate event. Because there was such a thing as goddamn limits, and Harry had them, and his included having to see those two Extra bastards practically fucking on ice to _Je T'aime, Moi Non Plus_. It was enough to make him want to carve out his eyes with his own skates.

 _Speaking of Extra bastards_...Harry stared dubiously at the mass of text notifications from his Idiot Coach, the latest of which was time stamped all of ten minutes ago.

 **Diktor Nochill [06:05 am]** : Hala! Daddy's sorry he's running late, but my Yuuri got caught up at the studio with the Novice class, so I have to go get him first. Waaaah, I can't wait to see him in his ballet tights, teaching all the tiny dancers their barre exercises! ))) Make sure you do your warm ups and work on your figures til we can get there. Daddy will see you soon, and then we can work more on your program. ))))

 **Diktor Nochill [6:47 am]** : Stuck in traffic on the way back Madame Lilia's. ((((((. Yura needed a ride today, so I'm bringing him too. Shouldn't be longer than an hour. Make sure to drink plenty of water while you wait. You need to be full of energy so we can practice for your debut at Russian Nationals. See you soon, my smol son~. Don't tell Yura, but you're my favorite. ( / * 3 *)/ WAH, ITHINK HESAW THAT, HE's YellING aND GrABbiNG my phON

 **Diktor Nochill [7:15 am]** : Just made it to the studio ((((. Traffic was worse than I thought. Looks like my Yuuri's class is running late, so I get to see him dance )))))) Make sure you take your ten minute break, if you need to. We're going to be working hard today. |_(^_^)_|. I gotta go, Yura is yelling at me for being dumb, he's such a mean boy. ((((

 **Diktor Nochill [7:25 am]** : Just left the studio, we should be there in about twenty minutes. Maybe more, because my Yuuri is driving now. He's so cute, but he drives like Babushka Natalia Alexandrovna from down the hall. Don't tell him I said that, please. OOPS, I think he saw what I was writing, because he's frowning at me, now. DON'T FROWN AT ME, MY LOVE ((((((

Harry stared at his phone, eyes as dead as his soul felt. Blinked. Then let out a sigh worthy of the oldest of crotchety old men. Snatching up his water bottle, he knocked it back like it was a shot of rotgut vodka, kind of wishing it were. Kind of needing it to be. Good lord, but his Coach was in one of his moods, which meant Plisetsky was going to be a fucking _delight_ , by the time they got here.

“Everything alright?”

“Mm?”

Pushing the hair off his forehead and pasting on his blandest smile, he turned to wave off whoever it was that was talking to him—and goddamn froze. Because it was _Him_. His Future Husband and Sire of His Theoretical (because he wasn't a goddamn woman) Babies.

Impossibly bright eyes stared down at him, a smile tugging at those thin, pretty lips. “Are you alright? You look a little...ah...”

He let out a garbled sound, gesturing vaguely at his phone. Oh lord, but he was pretty sure he'd forgotten how to Russian, and didn't think he could English even if he tried. Fuck. FUCK. Maybe he could French?

_Voulez-vous coucher avec moi, ce soir?_

No, so French was out, too. Double fuck.

The man smiled, taking a seat at his side, and Harry wanted nothing more than to sidle close, so that that lovely warmth would be pressed up against him, from shoulder to ankle. However, he wasn't a creep. Well, not quite that level of creep, anyway. God, he hoped he wasn't quite that level of creep, because he was pitiful enough already.

Harry swallowed around his dry tongue, and tried again. “A-ah, no. Um. Coach, he...a bit of a...you know?”

“Oh?”

He shot the beautiful, beautiful man a tight, wobbly smile. “You, er, ever met Coach Nikiforov?”

The man looked thoughtful, tapping a thin, elegant finger against his lips. Harry nearly wheezed. “I'm not sure I've ever had the pleasure.” He shot him a wry grin, “you'd think I'd know everyone, being a social media manager, but don't let the title fool you. Aside from a few of the star players, I've not met most of the hockey team, let alone the coaching staff, and, well...I've noticed that skaters don't really mix with the hockey players?”

Harry grimaced.

“Yeah, uh, no. It's not personal—um, not for me, I mean—but, one of the coaches here dated a hockey player back when she was competing, and it didn't end well.” Harry tried his best to repress the memory of the terrifying throw down that had taken place between Mila and the unfortunate sod who'd sassed her Ice Dancers. There was no fury like a Mila riled up about her baby skaters.

“Ah.”

“Yeah. Also? You can only see the Hockey Bros trying to do jumps and spins like they think it's a fucking joke so many times before you wanna cut a bitch.”

The man snorted, and Harry startled, turning to stare up at him wide-eyed. For a moment, he'd been caught up enough to forget he was talking to the living, breathing embodiment of his Dream Journal. “Er...that is to say, um. I don't not like them, I just prefer not to die the horribly, bloody death that would await me when literally every other skater found out about it.”

The man beamed down at him, and Harry...Harry's soul Ascended. Either that, or he just came in his pants. He really, really hoped it was the former, because he wasn't mentally prepared to handle the fallout of pulling a Giacometti. He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the burn of a blush spreading across every inch of visible skin. Just to be safe, he slouched over his knees, because like fuck was he gonna be caught checking out the state of his skate pants.

He Of The Dreamy _Everything_ shot Harry a soft look—and god he couldn't handle it, he _couldn't_ —before rising to his feet. “I have a meeting in...fuck...five minutes, but I'll see you around...ah?”

“Um...H-Harry. Potter. You can call me Harry. If you want. Or Hala. Everyone calls me that. Well, _no_ , not _everyone_ , but—I'll just shut up now. ” _What even was that_ , _I'm a fucking trashfire disaster human, jesusfuck._

His Future Husband shot him another one of those devastating, pants-melting smiles. “Hala, then. I'm just Jae, OK?”

_Cue: Internal Screaming_

_Cue: Joyful Ugly Sobbing for Days_

_Cue: The Most Genuine Internal-Squee of His Pitiful Goddamn Life_

He let out a stuttering breath. Cool. He could be cool for one goddamn fucking second. “J-Jae, then. See you. Around. _Jae._ ”

Harry tried not to cringe, hoping the older man hadn't noticed how breathy his voice had gone at the end. Whether or not he noticed, the Living Bane of His Libido walked off with a cheery smile.

Harry, for his part, all but swooned back onto the bench seats, feeling spent. Not, you know, sexually, but also kind of that. That was...that had been...everything. He was so, so glad he'd gone for Longing for his theme this season, because he was pretty sure he could skate the fuck out of his Short Program right now and fucking nail it.

“HALA VIKTOREVICH KATSUKIFOROV-POTTER, _YOU_ ARE SUPPOSED TO BE _PRACTICING_.”

Ah, good. That's his inappropriate boner dealt with, then. Harry lifted his head, smiling blearily at his Coach. Sensei, for his part, just looked relieved that his husband's...everything...wasn't directed at him, for once. Even Plisetsky looked done, and he usually had thicker skin than that.

Fuck.

Hand shaking as he gripped his water bottle, he lifted it weakly, waving it towards his Coach. “You told me to take a break, so I am.”

The ridiculous man's attempt at a surly glower melted away into the more familiar expression of wide-eyed concern. “You've been practicing non-stop since five? Hala, you need to take better care of yourself than that.”

Harry shot him a flat look, quietly thankful for the distraction. Anything to keep his mind off the fact that he had ascended his human form to become the Avatar of Derp. “Yeah, alright.”

He knocked back the last of the water before rising to his feet. He stretched with a slow groan, grateful that the layers of skate pants and leg warmers had kept his muscles from going too stiff from the cold. His Coach was tutted at him, tugging at the collar of his jacket, all but shoving his hands back into his skate gloves, and Harry let him. He didn't like playing doll, per se, but if it got the fussing out of the way, then all the better for him.

He just wanted back onto that ice. He felt _inspired_.

...he shot a subtle look at his groin. Hopefully, not that inspired. He _really, really_ wasn't ready for whatever conversation would follow him pulling a Giacometti.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'M SO GLAD TO BE BACK.
> 
> Also, no, but really? If you want to know how Puppachin earned her name, do an internet search of Maltipoo puppies. Most of them look like teacup versions of Makka.


End file.
